


I meant to have but modest needs

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary tells the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I meant to have but modest needs

Something had broken in Mary when Gustav died, but not her heart. At least, that was not how it seemed to her; she thought rather that some tether between her mind and soul had not been merely loosened but severed. Now, within her there was a wildness she struggled to control. It had been harder in Boston, with less to occupy her. She had felt she would be consumed with longing and had scarcely known what to do. She missed the minister of her youth and his gentle counsel, her mother’s hand upon her forearm and the green fields of the family farm that could fill her eyes. The War and Miss Dix’s request for nurses had been a salvation she could not forgo, work worth everything to her.

Still, she found she must let herself yearn for what she wanted, without any attempt at containment or qualification, if she was to remain thoughtful and calm in the wider world. It was mostly at night, alone in the narrow bed or sitting on the darkened veranda overlooking a garden of fragrances, that she could take the chance. Caroline had noticed once, in Boston, when Mary had become so overwhelmed, her eyes blind and had given her such a searching look in return. She had made sure to keep her needlework with her or one of Gustav’s worn German texts after that, a refuge from herself and her sister.

The grueling work of Mansion House had obscured the damage to her and in the midst of so many wounded boys, her own injury regained some proportion, though she could never disclose it. How unwomanly another would find her, deviant and repulsive! She must manage as the boys did, to act so well that one did not remark upon the arm without the hand, the dragging leg. If she allowed herself her desperation, from time to time, where none could see or be troubled by her, she could remain the Head Nurse, the Baroness von Olnhausen, the Nurse Mary that soldiers, suffering or close to death, were still eager to see, gladdened by her mild presence. Even Jedediah seemed generally soothed by her now and when he challenged her, she felt that he did so seeking the stimulant of her response or the delight a quick remark would give him. She was not sunny but she was serene among others; she did not let her eyes flicker with her want.

The degree of her longing was subdued until it was intolerable and she must at least allow herself to feel all of it. She lay neatly in her bed and let herself wish for what she had had—a fresh biscuit, split and spread with the farm’s butter, faintly tasting of lacy carrot leaves Bess preferred as cud; to lie on the brook’s mossy bank, her bare feet in the cold water, the grasses swaying like palms around her; Caroline behind her, unbraiding and brushing out her hair, careful with the curls, winding a few round her fingers, the little talk of the little days familiar as a sparrow’s diligent pecking after scattered crumbs. She yearned for that which she had never known—the taste of desert air without a drop of water in it, and a vista, grit gold and pale until the sky was overturned like an enameled bowl; the small acclaim of the paneled seminar, the silken drag of chalk against the slate board to show the solution she alone had found, clearly, undeniably perfect; decadence, sugarplums and mulled wine, a veil embroidered in silver along its edge, to walk out of a room where music was played so finely and yet to waste it.

And she wanted passionately what she could never have—her dead husband back, that dead life she had once found so satisfying, the smell of acid gnawing linen and wool, to dream in his German; Jedediah’s clever, careful, lovely hands stroking her, anywhere he could reach, their clothes in heaps, his voice rutting in her ear, every endearment an anticipation of the only words that mattered, _Mary_ and _love_ and **_mine_** ; to feel her living child move in her belly in the night when sleep made her lover distant, to hear her baby squall urgently and settle her newborn at her full breast, the candied smell of milk softening the recent tang of childbirth’s blood, her husband’s hand warm upon her shoulder as the suckling knit her together sharply within and she breathed through the return to herself alone; the license to be forward, to demand, to be hungry, to be praised for all three.

It was best Jedediah was married. She was dangerous. Eliza Foster, far away in California, was a protection against her. Mrs. Foster kept her husband’s honor safe even without knowing it, a warden against Mary who concealed a knife within her where she’d been shattered. Her dreams were without a shelter or a sanctuary; she would not cut anyone as she had been.

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a shorter, more direct and less controlled story about Mary's longings. It has far less plot than my other works but I thought it would be interesting to be a little more unleashed.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
